


Saunter, Vaguely

by horayytio



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, attempting a multi chapter fic at the expense of my readers and loved ones, aziraphale and crowley are stripped of their vibes and cast out of paradise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 11:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20114026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horayytio/pseuds/horayytio
Summary: “Firstly, falling is one of those ineffable things. We could never outrun it, Alpha Centauri or no. Secondly, that’s not what’s happening here.”Aziraphale’s head snaps up.“Ah,” Crowley pauses. “Perhaps that should have been number one. Reverse that.”





	Saunter, Vaguely

Crowley doesn’t dream. 

He’s been sleeping recreationally for a couple thousand years, and usually finds the experience to be… blank. It is one of the few things in his not-quite-life which he finds, well, _ unproblematic _ . Uncomplicated. Being unconscious keeps him out of trouble’s way, and frees him of any tiresome temptation to do (shudder) _ good_, and so his superiors haven’t ever had much to say on the matter, even when he gave a damn about what they had to say at all. Pun intended. 

So yes, sleep is good. Blank. Just the thing, when the time is right. Whenever he feels the need to _ sod it all,_ to coil himself up tight and cut it all out for a minute, Crowley goes to bed. 

Which is why he is somewhat at odds with the dreaming bit that is happening right now. 

And it _ has _ to be a dream, because Aziraphale is _ here_, in his _ room_, at the foot of his bed, and he is completely frazzled and- well, no other word for it- wearing an oversized nightshirt. Only a nightshirt. 

Crowley almost groans out loud, but decides that he has rather too much dignity for that. Instead he settles for sitting level with Aziraphale (but not really), enjoying the strange feeling of fluidity which accompanies the movement, and letting out a purring (he hopes) “_ Hello _, Angel.”

If Crowley’s understanding of dreams is correct, this about to head in one of two directions. He hopes it’s the naughty one. No one is surprised. 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale says, and the former questions why he isn’t removing his clothes. “We need to talk.” Oh dear. When has that sentence ever meant anything other than “_ You won’t like what comes next _?”

Never, is when. 

Something outside of the window howles, like wind but colder, rattling the shutters (which Crowley does not have) and Aziraphale-who-is-not flinches. His shirt is unbuttoned. A little, at the top. 

The serpent sighs, sits up, lets his bare feet brush the glass-like floor of his bedroom. He realizes that his skin feels odd, warm, warmer than it should. Something catches the corner of his eye. 

Oh bugger, the walls are bleeding. 

Aziraphale shakes. He says nothing. His eyes are frozen wide, and he slowly raises a hand. It points to Crowley.

“What, have I got the cheese touch?” 

The (rather becoming) Boogie-Man squints. 

Crowley squints back. “Look, are you new at this? A dark and stormy night? Walls dripping with blood? Forebodingly dark furnishings?” The figure’s eyebrows furrow. Crowley hates that it is familiar. “Fair enough, we’ll chalk that up to yours truly, but the howling wind? A figure in white? I’ll give you some points for casting the angel, that was a solid move, but, what- Was a brass candelabra not in the budget?”

The Nightmare seems confused, and more than a little frightened. My how the turntables. “I bring tidings-” 

“No-” Crowley drawles. “Let me guess. You’re dying. Am _ I _ dying? Is the world ending, _ again _ ? Apocalypse pt. 2, the Re-Reckoning?” That has a ring to it. Sounds very American. “Now, I’m not much of a dreamer, but this has come a far shot from tossing my pillows. In fact, you may congratulate yourself on a singular success in _ pissing me off _.” He finds himself stalking towards the figure, fists balled.

“Anthony J. Crowley!” Not-Aziraphale snaps, and Crowley realizes that his voice has been rumbling slightly, like thunder, this whole time. The figment paces quickly to where he stands, frozen, grabs him by the shoulders. The storm outside quiets. “Take heart and listen, for Lo, I bear a message from on high; _Be not afraid, for I am with you._” 

Crowley barely finds the breath for a pitiful “Yeah, right.” 

Even as resolutely anti-dream as Crowley has become, those hands feel so _ very _ solid, and those eyes are so _ very _ near. Well. It’s not like this is _ really _ Aziraphale, and if he can ignore how the hands feel a little bit like nettles, and how the eyes seem to glow a bit, there wouldn't be any _real_ harm in leaning in- 

The figure grasps his temples, keeping him in place. “And a command.” 

He does _ not _ think, _ Anything _. He does not. 

“Wake up.”

-

Crowley wakes up. He’s in his flat. Sunlight is fighting its way through a crack in his expensive, ugly curtains. Aziraphale is there, pulling a hand back from his arm. 

He casts a perfunctory glance at the walls. Right as rain. 

“Er,” Crowley gulps. “Hello.”

“Morning, Crowley,” breezes Aziraphale, and he manages to make it sound like this is the most usual thing in the world. This being Aziraphale. In his flat. In his bedroom. Sitting on the edge of his bed. “I trust that you slept well. Or, I hope that you did. You didn’t look very comfortable.” 

“You’re in my flat.” Crowley deadpans. 

Aziraphale has the good graces to look a little sheepish, fiddling absently with the coat that rests in his lap. “I have a key. Or, I made one- Or rather, I had it made. After the whole, um, well.”

“Apocalypse.” 

“Indeed.”

“War that never was.” 

“Right-o.”

“_ Right-o? _”

Aziraphale just sits there, hands slowly knitting together. Belatedly, Crowley realizes something is off. The angel is sweating. 

“What’s going on?”

“We need to talk.” Aziraphale says. “I… believe I have misplaced my grace.” 

_ Oh _. Crowley exhails. 

“Exactly.” Aziraphale says. 

“Fuck.”

“Indeed.”

-

“Do you remember when you had it last?” The demon asks once they’ve situated themselves at his (massive, imposing) dinner table. The living room seemed too casual for this sort of conversation. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s a fair question. Is there anywhere you could have dropped it?” 

“As you well know, losing your grace is not something one forgets.” Aziraphale says, voice measured, in that way of his which also says _ No actually, you’re right, probably just dropped it at the shops the other day. I’ll go see if any celestial essence has turned up at Tescos, fucking idiot. _

“Don’t be tetchy, Angel,” Crowley admonishes, “You _ have _ forgotten. I’m just saying, if we could find out when you _ were _ glorified for sure and when you were _ not _ , maybe we could figure out when you _ stopped _. And from there, the why and where.” 

Aziraphale slumps, cupping his hands around a thermos of tea which he hiked over from the shop- probably assuming any tea prepared in Crowley’s kitchen would over-steep (He’s wrong, Crowley just doesn’t have any tea). “Forgive me, you’re doing your best. I suppose I just- well, I’ve never done this before. I thought maybe you would have some pointers.” 

Oh, that sentence and those eyes. In _ any _ other context. 

He is a bad man. 

But Crowley pauses. “Done what?” 

“Fallen.” The angel’s face tightens for a moment, and he takes a small breath. “Or maybe, I don’t know, help me get away, Alpha Centauri or something I don’t-” His eyes mist up. 

Aziraphale is a very pretty crier. Crowley knows this. It is almost enough to distract the demon from how dramatic he’s being. “Firstly, falling is one of those ineffable things. We could never outrun it, Alpha Centauri or no. Secondly, that’s not what’s happening here.”

Aziraphale’s head snaps up.

“Ah,” Crowley pauses. “Perhaps that should have been number one. Reverse that.”

Aziraphale doesn’t even have the good graces to look annoyed. Instead he looks powerfully... hopeful. It makes Crowley hungry. “It’s not? How can you tell?” 

The demon smiles, leaning back, and inhales deeply through his nose. “I’d smell it.” 

Aziraphale’s head tilts innocently. “I’ve never asked, how is it that you are so familiar with my scent, Crowley?”

Damn it. Crowley flusters for a moment, and Aziraphale smirks. Bastard. “That’s- its- shut up. It’s an… Orientation thing. Fallen angels stink in a _ big _ way. I don’t know why, but it’s strong enough to alert all senior demons in the area. Fresh meat, all that.” Most senior demons view orientation week as a hands-on workshop for the sort of trauma induced psychosis great demons are built upon. The hellish icebreaker is a soul cleaving ordeal. “Believe me, if you were falling, you wouldn’t have made it to my flat without finding that out. Extensively. And anyway, it’s not like a demon’s grace is _ gone _ after we’ve fallen. It just sort of… twists.” Like a knife. Or intentions. 

It’s the first time in millennia that Crowley has talked openly about the process of falling (or falling at all) to the angel (or anyone) but he avoids a few of the more delicately tragic details. Aziraphale isn’t going through it, Aziraphale doesn’t need to think about it. Besides, the angel might look at him weird. 

Crowley should see a therapist. No one is surprised. 

He gets back on track. “The point is, I don’t smell a _ thing _ on you, rancid or otherwise. You just smell… like you, I guess.” 

It’d be hard to argue that, and Aziraphale doesn’t try. Instead, he appears lost in thought, hunched over his thermos in Crowley’s yawning dining room. 

No one but Crowley feels how the air shifts with Aziraphale in it, how it feels newer. It's a secret, one of few truly unspoken (if fairly obvious) secrets left in the universe, and when Crowley is feeling generous he finds beauty in that. Something which he has not betrayed. Soft, beautiful Aziraphale, muses over his tea in this grey, minimal, angular space, and six thousand years feels like nothing. Crowley imagines a moth in a web. He is not sure who is the moth. 

Aziraphale grimaces slightly, and Crowley frowns. “What is it?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Aziraphale says, waving his hand. “My tea’s gotten cold, that’s all.”

That sort of thing happens here. Literally, drinks in Crowley’s kitchen have a tendency to cool too fast when you’re not looking. Except for milk, which heats up. Very sneaky. 

“Would you like me to warm that for you?” Crowley asks, allowing his eyes to cast that encouraging gleam, the one which says _ Go on. Live a little _. 

“Oh, would you?” Fake surprise, genuine gratitude. “I’d do it myself but, well, we’ve been over that, and-” 

Crowley waves a hand. Aziraphale stops short and smiles again, small. 

A little miracle here, a small allowance there. The old game that they play. The deal. It’ll stutter, now, with the angel’s condition, but there is always a rhythm, always a way to help each other. Crowley watches Aziraphale blow gently into the thermos, move it to his mouth, and is sure that they’ll be alright. Eventually. 

Until Aziraphale freezes. 

Pulls the thermos from his lips, glaring daggers across the table. 

“What is it?” Aziraphale holds. All of that lovely contemplative warmth seems to slink away. “Seriously, angel, what is it?” 

Aziraphale wavers, and Crowley could _ pinpoint _ when this situation shifts from exeedingly concering to a Massive Fucking Nightmare (another one, figures), as the angel slowly pushes the thermos across the table. The table in question remains impressively (ridiculously, hideously) long, and much of the drama is ruined as Crowley stands, awkwardly pushing his chair back with his legs as he grabs the thermos. He is very nearly sick.

The tea is stone cold. 

“Fuck.” He says. 

“Right.” Says Aziraphale.

“Shitting fuck.” He says.

**Author's Note:**

> This should be about four parts. Yee haw


End file.
